Not Quite Normal
by luthien-yavetil
Summary: "Doctor!" called the urgent voice from the front door at 221 Baker Street. John Watson looked up from his latest blog post on his laptop. A message from Sherlock appeared on his phone: 'It's for you. SH'
1. Chapter 1

_ Tap tap tap._

There was someone knocking on the front door. He could hear it through the second floor window.

"Sherlock, would you get the door, please?" Doctor John Waston called. His eyes were locked on the computer screen and fingers on the keyboard. A groan rumbled in his throat, and he shifted uncomfortably halfway through typing 'poisoned baloney'. It was _unbelievable_ how kids nowadays could fiddle around with such tiny contraptions. If only someone could invent a laptop computer with the same portability, yet upon opening, turned out to be twice the size you expected it to be, he would buy it in a heartbeat. Or maybe three times bigger. The bigger on the inside, the better.

_ Tap tap tap – knock! _

John's eyebrow twitched, but stubbornly maintained close eye contact with the screen. "Sherlock. Come on. Mrs. Hudson's been opening the door for all your weird clients for months – least you can do is return the favor while she's off visiting her brother's wife's cousin's niece's unc… while she's off visiting her relatives."

He knew for a fact Sherlock was in a much better position for door-answering. Mrs. Hudson had recently cleaned up her flat, and before she left allowed her 'two favorite boys' to make use of it, as long as the place stayed relatively clean and no bullet holes pierced the walls. The fiend was probably moping on Mrs. Hudson's sofa by then; he returned home a couple of hours ago in such a fiendishly rotten mood that he couldn't even make it up the stairs. There probably hadn't been any progress in his latest case or whatever, John supposed.

Still, that gave him no excuse for not at least answering the door!

_KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK._ The visitor was pounding now.

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled and finally fell back on the wooden chair. Exasperated, he brought his hands to his face. Perhaps it was about time to clean out the fridge of the trash. Including that annoying mutilated head Sherlock was so partial about.

_ "Doctor?" _

John lowered his hands.

The voice floated in from below and through the open window. A woman's voice, with a sort of an accent. Scottish, street was quieter than usual that day, so he heard it quite clearly.

John's cellphone beeped. It lied within arm's reach on the tabletop, just beside Sherlock's ever-so-favorite skull best friend. John picked it up and accessed the single unread message.

'_It's for you. SH'_

John gritted his teeth. So the bugger could hear the door just fine, eh, yet still didn't bother to respond. Maybe he should start threatening to flush Sherlock's precious lockpicking tools (flown in specifically from Germany) down the toilet, but then realized that would take too much time to type out. John's skills had somewhat improved with the computer, but texting was a completely different matter. In fact, he'd prefer to call, but his phone was never good with call reception.

_"Doctor, would you answer the door? Now?" _The Scottish was louder now._ "You _know _I am not going to tolerate WAITING again, of all things. This is important!" _

She was right – he had kept her waiting long enough. John stood up and checked out the window just to get a glance at whoever needed him. That female voice sure hadn't been Sarah's, and none of his patients sounded Scottish. Perhaps she was one of their relatives, or someone who needed a house call? But in the end he had no way of even trying Sherlock's methods of deduction at her. The figure at the door was completely shielded by the top of an expanded worn gray umbrella.

John pulled away from the window and scratched his arm, frowning slightly. A sudden feeling of apprehension washed over him, and he found himself glancing at the desk again. But, he thought as his eyes trailed down, he was fairly confident there shouldn't be anything unusual with… _eh?_

The medical man flinched at the sight of the arm he had been scratching. In his hand was an open-capped black marker, one of the many pens that were supposed to be jumbled up inside the desk. He dropped it like a hot potato, his eyes inexplicably wide and fearful. What in the world was going on he–

"_DOCTOR!"_

_ Beep. _Another text.

'_John , answer the door or I will cut up one of your sweaters. Cheers. SH' _

And with that, John Watson hastily scurried downstairs as fast as his legs could carry him.

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><p>(AN: This is a bit of an idea I had for mashing together DW and SH. K, Z, D, I blame you three. To everyone else, I'd thoroughly appreciate any reviews or criticisms you may have for me. Thanks!)


	2. Chapter 2

He made sure to check into Mrs. Hudson's flat before making for the front door. And sure enough, there he found Sherlock slumped on the sofa, lazily twirling the upper pegs of his violin. Sherlock spotted him, but said nothing.

John stared at the psychopathic genius for a while, his mouth open as if he wanted to say something, but what happened with the marker felt like an idea too weird to point out, even to Sherlock. He closed his mouth and pursed his lips in contemplation, and Sherlock turned away as he reached down to pick up his bow. John left, and started towards the front door.

Just as he reached it, he began to hear the Scottish woman's voice again muffled through the wood, but now she seemed to be saying a bit of nonsense as well. And as it turned out, she wasn't alone.

_"I know you're there, raggedy man. Ugh, we've been here for twenty minutes already – Rory. Rory, give me that screwdriver –" _

_ "No, no, no – he _specifically _said not to do any of that until he remembers. It could cause him to freak out, and who knows what his human form's capable of…" _

_ "Just shut your stupid face and give it to me. We're running out of time…" _

John put his hand on the door handle, took a deep breath, and, wearing his most doctor-ish smile, opened the door. Standing on the top step turned out to be a couple underneath a large tent of gray umbrella. The woman had a pretty round face and outstandingly ginger hair, and the man, on the other hand, an unfortunately large nose.

"Can I help you?" John asked politely.

The woman lowered a step down behind her in shock, sizing the person before her incredulously. "My god," she remarked. "He got short."

John particularly noticed what her companion held in his hands (forever a soldier, he was on the constant lookout for weaponry) – in his left hand, the man seemed to be a sort of thick pen-like device with a clawed end, and in the right, an ancient-looking pocketwatch of all things, like some sort of costume prop.

As the melancholy whines of Sherlock's violin started screeching down the hallway, John realized he was staring at the pocketwatch a bit longer than he intended to. He hastily lifted his head to return to conversation.

"I-I'm sorry – do I know you two?" he said, using context from what the woman just said.

The man with the stuff nodded. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, and his eyes darted every so often, as if he was afraid someone was watching him. "Yes – at least, you're _supposed _to know us…" He glanced at his companion, who gingerly (_haha,_ John thought. _A ginger _ginger) returned to the step beside him. Then, back to John, he said, "Look, it's not going to be easy for me to explain. I just need you to take a look inside this pocketwatch."

John eyed them warily. He had come in contact with all sorts of people since knowing Sherlock, and through that became very knowledgeable that even the most timid-looking people could be hiding the most evil and powerful intentions within. These two could very well be up to something.

But then again, it was just a pocketwatch. A _pocketwatch!_ What harm could come of it? "Alright," he concluded slowly. "Open it up, then."

Once again, the couple glanced at each other. John's suspicions increased once again.

"You'll have to open it yourself," the red-head explained anxiously.

"Then I'm afraid I'll have to decline." John started to close the door and shut them out.

"W-Wait!" the man with the nose blurted. John stopped the closing, which had turned the gap just a pencil-thick wide open, but made no move to open it out again.

"2-2-1…" he recited slowly, obviously reading the sign plate on the door. "You… live with Sherlock Holmes, yeah?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"So I bet you've learned a thing or two from him, haven't you?" the man continued, really just blathering on at this point. "The… The truth is, we don't really know who… _owns_ this pocketwatch, you see. My wife's mum found it up in the attic… in an old, blue box…" He cleared his throat. "A-And we were hoping that you could have a look at it for us."

"… You called for _me. _Not Sherlock Holmes."

"… her mum was one of your patients. Mrs... Smith."

So what? John had treated dozens of Mrs. Smiths in his profession. Not a very unique name in London. Too bad he couldn't remember if any one of them was ginger – it could have helped him narrow her down. That was unless, of course, the wife the man referred to was his woman compatriot.

The mysterious item-holder continued, and fortunately for him, John did not comprehend how much that explanation was actually grasping at spider-web size strings. "She told us you lived with Mr. Holmes, and our best chance of getting someone's attention from this place is through calling you, sir, since Mr. Holmes is usually somewhere… somewhere out there."

The gap widened once again and eventually revealed the war veteran looking more relaxed, but internally no less suspicious. "Well, good news for you. You don't really need me. Just ask the bloke himself. He's right inside. Acting like a spoiled brat and all, but still a genius if you manage to get him into it."

"_But _since you're here," said the ginger, shrugging loftily in a sudden shift in attitude. "Why don't you have a look at it? You must have picked up a trick or two from Mister… uh, Mr. Holmes."

John's better judgment urged him to refuse. But Sherlock's violin playing had gotten louder during the course of their conversation, and the noise turned out to be very effective in clouding all the things his better judgment told him. And the urgent face of the nose man before him wasn't making things any easier; he seriously looked as if this pocketwatch was the most urgent thing in the universe. Additionally, once in a while the lady would look at the pocketwatch with the exact same expression for short intervals. They were definitely hiding something.

But for John Watson, the high-pitched noise had gotten unbearable, his head pounded from blog-writing, and he had always wanted a chance to prove he could be just as clever as Sherlock Holmes.

Besides, the task seemed pretty similar to how Sherlock managed to deduce John's own attributes through a mere accessory back in the day – although except for a pocketwatch, it had been an iPhone. Perhaps he could apply some of the tricks he learned from then.

John finally stepped out and shut the door behind him, thankfully masking most of the depressingly horrendous music from the public road. "Fine, you win." He held out his palm. "Let me take a look at that."

The woman's eyes widened for a moment at the sight of his hand for some reason.

"Something bothering you?" John said.

"N-No," the woman stammered, also blinking at John's other hand and wrists. "I just thought that you should've seen them by now, so the lines…" She trailed off. But momentarily, she shook her head. "No, nevermind. Not important. Ignore me." But she seemed troubled nonetheless.

Silence gathered around them as the pocketwatch was passed into John's hand. The woman was looking around, shuddering, but by now John had learned to pay her no mind.

Instead, he held up the pocketwatch to eyelevel and gazed at it intently. "Now, let's see what we have here."

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><p>(AN: It's been a while since I've written something extensively, so forgive me if any grammatical aspects here make you want to strangle the author. Ehem. Also, reviews are still appreciated! YOU WILL MAKE ME HAPPY. SO HAPPY. HAHAHA &creepy stare& HAHAHAHAPPY)


	3. Chapter 3

Meanwhile, Sherlock's E string broke with a horrible, detonating _TWANG! _

He tossed both parts of the instrument to the nearest couch, scowling greatly. No more of John's conversation with the visitors could be heard now that the door was closed. Earlier, he only managed to catch a few phrases here and there, but he hadn't paid much attention. They were unimportant visitors, therefore for John, and had absolutely nothing to do with the current case at hand, therefore deserved to be ignored.

He did, however, know that they were quite concerned with a pocketwatch and wanted to discover its original owner. Sherlock fell back on the soft surface grumpily.

_Boring. _

Oh, how Sherlock craved for a lead, not a simple pocketwatch puzzle. Or at least another exciting murder, that would be splendid too. Sherlock wriggled and tried to sink in as much as possible into the retro striped cloth sofa and buried his face into the cushiony backrest.

Also, he wished for a nicotine patch. At least five of them. At the same time. But they were hidden in his bedroom upstairs, far too far for his genius to handle. Maybe he could get John to fetch some once he finished fending off the riff-raff.

"John?" he called after a few minutes. Surely he had finished by now, and should be stomping up the stairs by now to resume his 'blogging'. But nothing – not a sound. Sherlock lifted his head from the sofa. He hadn't even heard the door swinging for John's reentry.

Something was wrong.

He leaped out of the sofa and made for the front door. He wrenched the door and leaned out to the cold afternoon air, completely oblivious to the mess that was his hair, and the uncountable raggedness that had taken over his clothes.

His appearance was irrelevant. What was important was that the entire street as deserted, the owners of the two visiting voices vanished into thin air. And they seemed to have taken John with them.

In the end, despite the countless hours he spent pouring a microscope over the dust that collected on the steps, scourging for any fingerprints that may have been left behind, and demanding information from all his back-alley informants throughout the city, Sherlock Holmes never saw John Watson ever again.


End file.
